MR. NORTHCOURT'S OPINION
WHEN Kenneth Fortescue had left Marjorie at the door of Colwyn House,
he blamed himself very much that, for even a single moment, he had
allowed his feelings to be seen by her. Perhaps she had not noticed; he
hoped not. For what right had he, a practically homeless and penniless
man, to allow any girl to see that he loved her, or to attempt, in
however small a degree, to win her love in return? It was cruel,
utterly heartless and unworthy of a man, he said to himself.
For what hope of future happiness could such love ever bring? As long
as he was so heavily in debt to her mother (for he refused to allow
that the letter she had found had in any way cancelled that obligation)
every penny of his salary, beyond what he actually required for food
and clothing and the other small necessaries of life, must be sent to
Rosthwaite. He intended to send it in future at the end of each year,
and as his salary was a fairly good one, he hoped to be able to remit a
substantial sum the following Christmas. But four thousand pounds was a
considerable amount to reach, and he realized that it would take years
before he could return it all, if indeed his life were spared long
enough for him to do so. Meanwhile the thought of a home of his own was
one of the many things denied to him, one of the indulgences which he
had told Mrs. Douglas that he should renounce.
Moreover, as he travelled back to Birmingham, whilst he could not help
a feeling of satisfaction that his origin was not so humble as he had
imagined, yet at the same time, he reflected that his own father,
whether he were a lord or not, was by no means a father of whom he
could be proud. His foster-father, poor common miner though he was,
had shown far more feeling than his real father, and had behaved in
a manner which was vastly superior to that of the heartless man who
had deserted his own helpless child, and had left him to the care of
complete strangers. Still, if only that word had not been blotted out
of the letter, he might have been able to prove his claim on that
father's consideration, and might have compelled him to reinstate him
in the position which was his by birth.
As it was, he knew not what steps to take. He decided at length to go
to Sheffield, that he might see Mr. Northcourt, his father's lawyer,
and take his advice in the matter.
Accordingly, the following week, Captain Fortescue travelled northward,
and reaching Sheffield went at once to Mr. Northcourt's office.
The lawyer was much interested in the information laid before him. He
read and re-read the letter several times; he took a magnifying glass
and tried to discover the word covered by the ink; but at last he was
obliged to confess that it was hopeless to attempt to decipher it. He
was, however, strongly of opinion that the missing word or words had
undoubtedly been the correct name. Watson and Makepeace would not have
made that name illegible, had they not known beyond all doubt that
it was the name of his lost father. What use they had made of that
knowledge Mr. Northcourt said it was impossible to tell.
Probably the story that Miss Douglas had heard from the old woman in
the cottage at Daisy Bank, and which Captain Fortescue had just told
him, was perfectly true. They had found this name mentioned in the
letter as the possible name of Captain Fortescue's father; they had
then sought out and discovered the man named, and, by threatening to
disclose what they knew of his past history, they had extracted large
sums of money from him, money which they were now spending abroad,
or which, quite possibly, lay buried with them at the bottom of the
Atlantic.
Mr. Northcourt asked Captain Fortescue to leave the letter in his
charge, as it would prove most valuable evidence, should the case
ever come to trial, and he promised meanwhile to make all inquiries
that were possible. At the same time he was obliged to tell Captain
Fortescue that he much feared that no solution of the mystery would
be forthcoming; the two guilty persons had evidently made good their
escape, and he was therefore sorry to say that, in his opinion, they
had not yet found the clue which would lead them to the discovery of
Captain Fortescue's family.
After his interview with the lawyer Kenneth came away feeling rather
downcast and disappointed. He was walking towards the station, hoping
to be in time to catch the Birmingham express, for he wanted to get
back that night, as he had work that must be done the following day,
when he heard a well-known voice behind him.
"Captain Fortescue, sir!"
He looked round, and saw old Elkington, panting with the exertion of
hurrying after him.
"Excuse me, sir, for stopping you, but I was so pleased to see you
again."
"How are you, Elkington?"
"Fairly well, sir; I'm living with my daughter now; I'm too old to take
another situation. Have you found it, sir?"
"Found what, Elkington?"
"The letter you lost, sir."
"Yes, I found it three days ago; at least a friend of mine found it, in
the cottage of an old woman not far from Birmingham."
"Then it wasn't Watson who took it, sir?"
"Yes, it was Watson; she and that bookseller between them. He was her
half-brother, Elkington."
"Was he, indeed, sir? Well, I never knew that! I always suspected her,
sir."
"I knew you did, Elkington."
"She didn't like you, sir; she thought you kept her in her place."
"She wanted it, Elkington."
"She did, sir; but she didn't like it for all that. It was a bit of
revenge, I should say, sir."
"Partly, Elkington, perhaps; but she and her brother raised money on
it, too."
He then told Elkington a little of what he had heard, in which the old
man was deeply interested.
"Was the letter what you wanted, sir? I mean was it worth having?"
"To a certain extent, Elkington, but those two rogues had blotted out
the most important word, lest I should ever see it."
"The rascals!" old Elkington exclaimed. "Well, well; I'm not surprised
at anything that woman did."
The old man insisted on going with the Captain, as he called him, to
the station, and stood respectfully on the platform with his hat in his
hand as the train moved off.
Kenneth Fortescue did not see that he could do anything further in the
matter at present, nor indeed had he either time or opportunity to make
any other attempt to solve the mystery of his birth.
He was now at the head of a large and important branch of a great
fire insurance company, and had much business to transact. How could
he neglect his only means of livelihood, in order to attempt to
investigate a matter which baffled the legal mind of so clever a man as
Mr. Northcourt?
Therefore, as the months went by, and brought with them a continuous
stream of business engagements that filled up the moments of a busy
life, there was left little time for thought or for brooding over the
past. It was only when he had returned to his dull little sitting-room,
and was resting by the fire for a short time before beginning his
evening's work, that his thoughts would wander, in spite of himself, to
Daisy Bank.
One evening, his eye fell on the photograph of Honister Crag, which
was hanging over his mantlepiece. He looked back upon that walk with
such happy remembrance. How much he had enjoyed it, and how far away it
seemed now! He seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. He wondered
how Marjorie was getting on. Was the hard work telling upon her? Could
she keep her bright cheery spirit after so long a time spent in such
dreary surroundings? It was six months since he had seen her. Was it
really only six months? It seemed much longer.
Surely there would be no harm in his running over to Daisy Bank for
an hour, the next time that he had a spare afternoon. He would be
careful—very careful. Not a word or a look should reveal his secret.
He would simply see her and come away, content if she were happy, and
thoroughly satisfied if he knew no trouble was hanging over her.
At last the spare afternoon came, and he felt a great throb of
pleasurable excitement as he got out on the Deepfields platform.
Perhaps he should meet her on the road; it was the time when she
usually took her walk.
But no, she was not there to-day. He walked on over the pit mounds to
Daisy Bank. How long the way seemed! He passed the old cottage where
his lost letter had lain so long; it was shut up and deserted. He
hurried on now. Colwyn House was only a little further down the lane;
he would soon be there, and would see her again.
He was going up to the door when he drew back in dismay. The windows
were covered with dirt; several of the panes were broken; the steps
were a mass of mud; the small garden was overgrown with weeds; the
house which Marjorie had brightened by her presence was left untenanted
and utterly desolate.
He stood looking at it for some moments in Hopeless bewilderment. A
lad, who had come from his work in the pit, was standing near, leaning
against a broken-down wall.
"How long has this house been empty?" asked Captain Fortescue.
"Six months, or maybe more," said the boy. "Have they moved to another
house here?"
"No; they're gone."
"Gone where?"
"I don't know. Right away somewhere; down South."
"Why did they go?"
"The master fell down dead; soon after New Year it were."
"Do you know if Miss Douglas went with them?"
"Who did you say?"
"Miss Douglas."
"Never heard of Miss Douglas. They've all gone, so I suppose she did."
That being all the information he could extract from the boy, Captain
Fortescue returned to the station, feeling much depressed by the result
of his expedition. What had become of Marjorie Douglas? Would he ever
be able to discover? He thought once of writing to Rosthwaite to
inquire, but on second thoughts, he dismissed the idea promptly. What
right had he to make such an inquiry? None whatever; nor did he see any
prospect that such a right would ever be his.
So he went back to his hard work and his lonely life as contentedly
as he could, and tried to banish the restless thoughts that came to
disturb his peace of mind. He determined to take day by day as each
came, doing the day's duty, bearing the day's care, and not allowing
himself to indulge in daydreams of the future, which were never likely
to become more than dreams.